Amerigo and Charles Go To New Orleans, Part 4

The low ceilinged club was gorged with dancing people. Bodies throbbed up and down, some entwined. The small bandleader sung into the microphone and smiled and pointed while the brass instruments wonked away behind him. Shouts and claps came from everywhere.

The booze made it all seem fractured and disjointed, as if the flash of sudden memory was unraveling in real time, running disassociated images in quick succession - the glinting of angled-up trombones, the girl smoothing along Charles like a feline, the bobbing random faces - all over an immutable din of New Orleans jazz.

Charles and Amerigo, by the back bar, were handed drinks by people whose faces looked unfamiliar. A tall white guy with a backwards Yankee hat wobbled through the dancefloor while holding up his two fists and a nearby man, who looked like Prince, grabbed Charles and laughed at the guy and said, "White Chocolate, God damn."

Charles and Amerigo feverishly sweated and danced apart from the crowd. A girl from the worksite spun against Charles, putting her body flush against his, before slinking her face down to his zipper, and popping back up to oogle his drooping, bloodshot eyes. Charles eased his hands further down the girl's skirt, while next to him Amerigo sipped his beer and shook himself to the music, looking almost catatonic.

The girl tried to kiss Charles again, but he withdrew. She said, "What's wrong? Are you mad?" Charles clutched Amerigo's shoulders and mouthed "I'm out," and plied himself through the boisterous crowd with Amerigo following and protesting. They toppled over each other into the eerie, abandoned neighborhood and Charles walked out to the darkened opposite side of the street, the uproarious noise wavering out from the club, and Amerigo, with his beer still in hand, said, "What the fuck, man?"

"I don't want that chick grinding on me all night, man. There's tons of hot chicks in there."

"That's why we should go back inside." Amerigo finished his beer and threw it into a ransacked yard.

"I don't want to man." Charles said, pacing the sidewalk under a bald, spindly tree.

"Why the fuck not?"

"I just told you."

"Your reason makes no sense. There are hot girls in there and we should go back in there."

"Let's just go. To that other place. Vaughn's. I gotta get the fuck out of here. You can fucking stay if you want, but I gotta leave."

"Relax. okok. I gotta go back in and tab out my credit card." Amerigo turned and crossed the street without looking and a car swerved and brayed the horn, making the milling people glance and laugh. Charles sat on the curb and pulled his knees to his chest, then got up and paced again. He felt like something was slowly dissolving beneath his chest, and he became increasingly frantic.

Across the street, the clubdoor opened and music released into the night. Amerigo hurried out and the closing door muffled the trumpet wails behind him. Charles was about to apologize, but Amerigo said with tired eyes, "It's ok, man. I'm sure around here ridiculous freakouts happen all the time."